


Ran to the Devil, He was Waitin'

by Mojanna



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, bucky is sort of like bloody mary, bucky mary if you will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1709435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mojanna/pseuds/Mojanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is the mirror man, an urban legend whispered to kids to make them go to bed nice and quiet.</p>
<p>Steve is an idiot with too much to prove, who doesn't know when to back down from a bully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time was an accident of sorts; just another stupid act done in spite of a bully. It wasn’t that Steve was reckless by nature. He couldn’t afford to be, what with his cold, blue fingers and straining set of lungs. But something in the pit of his belly got all fired up when he was faced with a bully, and he’d never turn down a dare. He had to prove they couldn’t push him around, that there was more to him than met the eye.

And okay, so maybe he was a bit reckless. So what? He had no one left to worry. Just a grotty little ice box for a room and some sort of rawness in his chest that sang out in triumph when he fought. 

The tip of Steve’s tongue darted out to probe at a cut on his lip. He smirked up at the other boys, looming above where he’d sprawled. They were stretched out with new grown muscle, pulled taught with restless energy and puffing from Steve’s beating. Broken glass littered the alley way and dug in to cuts on Steve’s palms, while a half cracked mirror leaned against the alley wall between a rotting bookcase and warped floor lamp.

‘Getting sleepy?’ he gasped, straining to sit upright. 

His satchel with his sketch pads and work apron had spilled in to a puddle, and Steve fumbled with shaking fingers to gather his papers together. A boot kicked them out of his hands and splattered brown water up his cheek.

‘Leave ‘em,’ the young man snarled. ‘Little queer like you should be filthy.’

He grabbed a fistful of Steve’s hair, throwing him bodily in to the puddle after his sodden notebooks. Steve struggled for breath, his skinny chest heaving under his shirt as he pushed himself out of the water. It ran down his arms in murky rivulets, and a drop gathered on his nose. His latest army rejection form bobbed in a crumpled ball.

Steve started again to gather his things, but a hoot of laughter broke out and he was shoved aside.

‘The army?’ The bully crowed, his pals guffawing behind him. He smoothed out the rejection notice and flapped it at his friends. ‘What would the army want with a shrimp like you?’

‘I could be useful,’ Steve said quietly, jutting out his chin. He took advantage of their distraction, sitting up on his haunches and stuffing his things in his satchel.

‘Yeah,’ the leader snorted, ‘as cannon fodder maybe.’

‘If that’s what it takes.’ Steve pushed himself to his feet, keeping the damp strap of his satchel clenched in his fist. ‘You signed up yet? Or are you too chicken?’

The smirk drained away from the bully’s face, and he took a step towards Steve.

‘Chicken?’ He ground out, tossing the rejection slip aside. ‘What’s a little queer like you know about that?’

‘I know about not catcalling dames, and not picking on smaller guys. And I reckon I know that three on one ain’t a brave fight at all.’

Steve’s voice rose as he spoke, bouncing round the alley and mingling with the whisper of rain. His bully looked fit to pop, an ugly flush spreading up his neck and the bones of his fists creaking. He started to lunge at Steve, but something caught his eye - the speckled mirror leaning against the brown brick wall. Steve turned his head to look to, and regretted it immediately when he saw how small he looked. 

In his head he was always so much bigger. Like courage could make him swell.

‘Fine,’ the bully smirked. ‘If you’re such a brave little fairy - why don’t you call him?’

Steve swallowed, his eyes never leaving the mirror. The glass was splotchy and fogged, with spiderweb cracks lacing the edges.

‘Call him,’ he murmured, licking blood from his lip. A shiver ghosted over his skin, raising the hairs on his arms. Steve had to get in from the cold; there was no one to help if he got sick.

Heat washed over his front as the bully crowded him against the brick wall. Cold rainwater from the fire escape dripped down Steve’s neck, and he glared up at the bigger man, refusing to blink. A cruel smile tugged at the man’s mouth, and for a split second his eyes flicked down to Steve’s mouth.

‘That’s what I thought,’ he goaded, shoving Steve against the wall so that his head bounced off the brick. ‘Big talk from a little guy.’

‘I’ll call him,’ Steve snapped, wriggling out of the bully’s grip. ‘You wanna be here when I do?’

The man rolled his eyes, but his friends shifted behind him. Sharing a glance, they started edging towards the end of the alley.

‘You ain’t gonna. There’s no way.’

‘Watch me,’ Steve called as he staggered towards the mirror. ‘If you got the guts.’

Steve stood with the toes of his shoes only inches from the glass. Behind him he heard the bully shout after his friends, then take off after them, shoving dustbins over on his way. Steve could leave now; sneak away and limp home and suck down some watery soup. He made up his mind to go, even shouldered his ruined satchel, but something about the mirror held his eyes in its grip.

There - a movement. Something stirred in the depths of the glass, blurred by the filth on the surface. A blink, maybe. Or a licking of lips. Steve bent forwards without thinking, straining to see in to the mirror. A bead of blood gathered on his top lip and hung there, suspended, until finally -

_Plink._

It slid down the fractured mirror, catching in the cracks. Steve reared back in horror, his arms pinwheeling like a kid's cartoon. The mirror started to vibrate against the wall, letting out a low hum. Steve scrambled back as fast as he could, tripping over the fallen dustbins and landing painfully on his seat. 

Shards of glass splintered and whizzed away, flying past Steve’s head through the alley. One caught him square on the cheek, slicing hotly through his skin and setting his blood flowing. He gritted his teeth and told himself that the wetness on his cheeks was all blood, no tears. He’d prove that bully wrong now, even if by accident.

A crack like rolled thunder filled the alley, and the mirror split clean in two. Silence hung in the air for a moment, broken by a sigh. The fog of the mirror sucked up and out and swirled in to form, slinking towards Steve before it had fully solidified.

Well. That was… unexpected. The man in the mirror, the plague of the city, the stuff of bed time stories told to naughty children, was - well. Young. And sort of beautiful. And raking his eyes over Steve’s sprawled body like he was something to eat.

Because - right, monster.

A monster with messy hair and a rumpled shirt under braces.

Steve pinched his arm hard and forced himself to his feet, and when he swayed on the spot, a firm hand caught his shoulder. Steve screwed his eyes shut and tucked his chin to his chest. There were no bullies to see him now, and he maybe wasn’t so brave about dying as he’d earlier thought.

‘Easy, pal. You look like you’d blow over.’

Steve opened one eye by a crack.

‘Is this the eating part?’ He asked, his voice surprisingly steady.

‘Eatin’? Who’s eatin’? Little bite size lump like you’d hardly be worth the effort.’

‘Wh-what?’

‘You’re just a snack. An amooz-boosh, as the French might say if they weren’t busy losin’ to the Germans.’

The mirror man grinned at him, his hand still warm on Steve’s shoulder. Steve lifted his chin from his chest, ignoring the flush on his cheeks.

‘’Sides,’ the monster continued, ‘s’not like you really called me. Just smoothed the way a bit, and I fancied a bit of an outin’.’

‘Getting bored in there, were you?’ Steve asked, edging around the dustbins. A delighted laugh stopped him in his tracks, and a second hand landed on his free shoulder.

‘Pal,’ the mirror man squeezed tight, bending down to eye level. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

Steve stumbled over some empties, his mind racing a mile a minute trying to figure a way out. But the mirror man saved him the trouble, giving him a jovial clap on the back and spinning him back to the wall. 

‘Thanks, Steve-o, I owe you one,’ he called as he strode out the alley.

‘How - how d’you know my name?’ Steve shouted after him. He was rewarded with another cackle. 

The mirror man spun to face him, still walking backwards as his hands cupped his mouth. ‘Magic, Steve!’ He shouted. ‘Real mystical stuff.’

‘Really?’

‘Nah. It’s on your notebooks.’

Steve’s face flooded red as the man reached the street. He gave Steve a jaunty wave and clicked his heels together, before melting in to the stream of people trudging home after work. After a few minutes of stunned silence, Steve forced himself to move. He’d been outside, in the cold and soaked through, and chances were he was going to pay. 

_I can think of nicer ways to die,_ he thought, and shook himself back to reality. For all he knew he’d just unleashed some demon, and it could be madness and mayhem any time now. Best to drag himself back to his place so he could blame himself in the warm.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve lifted his razor in a shaking hand. He let it rest lightly against his cheek, and once it was steady, started to pull down to his jaw. The rattle in his chest was amplified in his tiny bathroom, interrupted only by the steady _plink_ of a leaky tap and the scratch of his morning stubble. It had been over a week since he’d been tossed around that alley, soaked through from his thin jacket right down to the skin. His rattling cough had grown louder; his hands had started to tremble. It felt like a penance, when his body fought him this way, and Steve took it without complaint. 

He had done his own damage in that alley, after all.

Right on cue, the depths of his chipped bathroom mirror started to shift. The pale fog of age and dust sucked towards the centre, and behind Steve’s own reflection the mirror man gave a lazy smile. His image was more suggestion than substance, but the way his eyes dragged over Steve’s fresh scrubbed skin felt all too real. They lingered at the hollow of his throat, and where Steve’s too-large shirt had slipped to the side, they slid right along his collarbone.

Steve pulled his shirt straight, the tips of his ears burning.

‘No,’ he declared.

‘Aw, come on, Steve!’ The mirror man cried, his eyes dancing behind the glass. ‘I haven’ even asked yet.’

‘Ask me, then.’

‘Please?’ 

‘No.’

The mirror man pouted and Steve rolled his eyes, reaching up to start on his lip. The two reflections hazed in and out of each other, taking turns to bob up to the surface. He squinted past the curve of a strange mouth, trying to see his own face to shave.

‘Hey,’ the mirror man called, knocking on the inside of the glass. Ghostly ripples fluttered over the mirror, like lazy swells of mercury. ‘Come on, Steve, be a pal. I’ll be good this time, I promise.’

Steve snorted. ‘Absolutely not!’

Not after last time.

————————————————————————————————————

_The fire escape was cold beneath him, sending a chill all the way through Steve’s layers. He’d started to wrap up the minute he stumbled in, scared that if he sat down he’d run out of fumes. He was wearing near enough all the clothes he owned, never mind the stink of puddle water, and he’d bundled up in blankets too before he’d slumped out on the fire escape._

_He should be in bed. Out of the wind and specks of blown rain. This could only be making things worse - driving the price of his recklessness higher. But he had set that - that thing - loose on New York, and he needed to know the consequences. Needed to know how much blame his soul was due to carry._

_Because something was wrong with the people._

_Steve’d known just as soon as he’d stepped on to the sidewalk. The after work commuters had lost their usual blank focus, and something else, something… coiled, had settled behind their eyes. It was the same look that had blinked at him out of the mirror; that had made him lean closer and drip his blood._

_A hazy sort of desperation: to move, to sin, to rip at the seams. His chest tightened as he met their eyes._

_Steve had stumbled home as the tension built around him, avoiding the haunted, searching gaze of the strangers in his path. The air was thick, full bellied with unseasonal heat, and his hair crackled with the static of a coming storm. Steve forced himself to breathe slowly and get back to his room. He stopped to throw up in the gutter once, panic and guilt clawing at his throat._

_No one helped, or cried out in disgust. They just gave him that lost, wild stare, like they were burning up from the inside. Then they’d started to turn to each other, crying out in relief and recognition. Like a homecoming._

_Steve let his eyes fall shut where he was curled up safe on the fire escape. Below were the sounds of a city in chaos - whoops and hollers and carnival ride cackles, against a mess of music and car horns. He’d strained to listen for sirens or screams, but he’d heard nothing so far._

_Maybe it wasn’t sinning people were after. Maybe it was just the sensation._

_Steve’s stomach clenched tight and a shiver wracked his frame. It was probably time to call it a night; to hold off the guilt until morning. It wasn’t like Steve could go looking for the mirror man, and what would he do if he found him?_

_A shadow dropped down from the fire escape above, landing catlike next to Steve’s bundle. The man’s face was cast in darkness, but Steve could tell straight away who it was. Tension radiated from his every move, each step like a taught wire. The shadow that had settled behind the people’s eyes - an echo, a cheap imitation. The mirror man looked like he could tear himself limb from limb, just from his veiled agitation. For a moment, Steve felt pity._

_‘What’s a nice boy like you doin’ out on the fire escape?’_

_The mirror man stepped in to a shaft of light, before folding himself gracefully to sit next to Steve. If possible, he looked even more dishevelled, his hair raked up in tufts and his shirt pulled loose at his waist. Steve noted with interest that the man had lost a shoe._

_‘Oh, you know. Enjoying the view.’_

_‘Even better now, I bet,’ the man leered. Steve raised an eyebrow. Suddenly the man slumped sideways, all the wind gone from his sails. His head flopped on to Steve’s shoulder; Steve turned to look and got hair in his nose. ‘Oh, don’ be that way, Stevie. ‘M’only pokin’ fun.’_

_Steve shifted under the weight of the man’s head and coughed to clear his throat. He briefly considered trying to trap the man in a blanket like a stray cat, then rolled his eyes at his own stupidity._

_‘Listen, Mr - Mr mirror man -’_

_‘Bucky,’ the man murmured against Steve’s neck._

_‘I’m sorry?’_

_‘M’name’s Bucky.’_

_Steve held his breath for one moment before a huff of laughter escaped. The mirror ma- Bucky shot upright next to him, glaring down at Steve’s grin._

_‘What’s so funny about bein’ called Bucky?’ he demanded, and Steve thought he maybe sounded a bit hurt._

_‘Nothing!’ He assured him, ‘sorry, sorry. It’s just… well. You’re a lot less scary now.’_

_Bucky glared at him for a moment longer before relaxing in to a sly smile. ‘Don’t forget who you’re talkin’ to, Stevie.’ He slithered closer. ‘I might decide I wanna taste after all.’_

_Bucky nosed at the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck, breathing in and humming appreciatively. Steve froze where he sat, his palms clammy where he clutched fistfuls of blanket._

_‘Jerk,’ he forced out, and Bucky burst in to a rumbling laugh that Steve felt through all of his layers._

_‘Punk,’ he replied, pulling back and rising in one fluid movement. He threw Steve a wink before ducking off the fire escape and in to Steve’s room. Steve scrambled after him, his limbs stiff from sitting still so long._

_‘Where are you going?’ He called as Bucky threw open the bathroom door. He stood staring at the mirror with a look of distaste._

_‘Home,’ Bucky said, turning to face Steve where his head poked in from the fire escape. ‘I’ve run all outta luck.’_

_As he spoke, his body began to fade, first limbs then torso curling in to tendrils of mist that drifted towards the mirror. His eyes were the last to go, staring straight at Steve with his bitter look of longing._

—————————————————————————————————————

‘Oh, come on. I wasn’ so bad!’ Bucky whined from his side of the glass.

‘You set some sort of spell on New York. You drove people out of their minds!’

‘Not all the way out!’ Bucky replied indignantly, as if that were any defence. ‘I just helped ‘em loosen up a bit. You know, I helped ‘em feel good.’ He smirked out of the mirror, watching Steve from under his lashes. ‘I could do the same for you, Stevie.’

Steve rolled his eyes and rinsed his razor. Bucky leaned closer to the mirror, his breath steaming the glass.

‘What about you, then? Did I drive you out of your mind?’

‘Nope. You just threatened to eat me.’

Bucky grinned, eyes wild, and licked a stripe up the glass. Steve cried out and shot back from the sink, half disgusted and half hot under the collar. 

‘Bucky!’ he shouted, scandalised, sending his tormentor in to peals of laughter.

‘I stand by that,’ Bucky gasped. ‘I think you’d be delicious.’

———————————————————————————————————

Bucky’s reflection followed him all day, like a stray cat but more annoying. He swam in to view in shop windows and car doors; jumped from puddle to puddle as Steve walked down the street. At work, as Steve was painting signs, he chattered from the lids of the paint pots, teasing and flirting and making loud observations about the people walking past. Steve learned fast that no one else could hear the reflections, and for the life of him couldn’t figure out why Bucky’d singled him out. It gave his chest a warm glow.

Still, it was distracting, and after a while the constant chatter was like a radio that wouldn’t switch off.

‘Uh huh,’ Steve murmured around the spare paintbrush between his teeth as he frowned in concentration. The shapes on the signs had to be clean, and Steve really needed this job. A loud burst of laughter from Bucky made him jump, and he wavered out of the lines. Cursing and climbing back down the ladder, Steve got the cloth to fix his umpteenth mistake and set his mind for a long day ahead. 

———————————————————————————————————

‘Swell buns here,’ Bucky commented, leering from the baker’s glass display case. A young dame leaned over him to look at the tarts and pastries.

 _‘Bucky,’_ Steve hissed, mortified, but after all, only he had heard. The baker frowned down at Steve in warning - no room for trouble makers here. Steve cleared his throat and turned to the cheapest loaves. When the dame ducked out soon after, she looked at Steve like he was gum on her shoe.

———————————————————————————————————

‘That’s all I’m sayin’, Steve-o. If you’d just let me out to stretch m’legs, you coulda saved yourself all this hassle.’

Steve closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a pounding headache, and he wasn’t sure if it was some sickness descending or just Bucky driving him up the wall. All day he’d had people giving him the side eye, whispering to each other behind their hands as Steve muttered to inanimate objects. Even when he’d tried to ignore Bucky, he couldn’t keep his eyes from sliding back to where the mirror man was smirking. His boss had gotten real mad about that, thinking Steve wasn’t paying attention. The signs had taken too long, as well. Steve was walking a knife edge.

Blearily opening his eyes a crack, Steve shuffled forward in the line. Charcoal, he needed, and a new thick pencil.

‘Not that I don’t like followin’ you round. S’like one of those document’ry films. You know. A wildlife one.’

Steve took another step forward, swaying on his feet. The broad back of the man in front almost brushed his nose.

‘But I gotta say, Stevie. You could use a bit more plot.’

Tell me about it, Steve thought privately. Outwardly, he just glared at the glass cover on a hanging art print. Bucky’s face mingled with the artwork, a life drawing of a curvy dame. It had taken one look around the shop to know where Bucky’d choose to appear.

‘I mean it, pal. But I could help! ‘Cos really, it’s just depressin’.’

The last thread of Steve’s temper snapped.

‘Shut up!’ He barked, forgetting himself. A heavy silence settled over the shop.

‘What did you say?’ The mountain of a man in front of him turned from where he’d been berating the shop owner. He loomed right over Steve, bristling for a fight.

Steve swallowed.

‘Nothing! Nothing. Sorry. Just. Thinking out loud.’ He glanced over at Bucky’s painting, but the reflection was pale and silent.

A rough hand gripped the collar of Steve’s shirt, and a feeling of deja vu came with it.

‘Yeah. That ain’t gonna do.’

—————————————————————————————————

This alley was dry at least, but the stench more than made up. 

Bucky found his voice again. He howled obscenities the whole time, flitting between the dustbins and a copper pipe. Steve didn’t let him out, even after he felt his nose pop. He didn’t want a death on his hands, and Bucky had never looked so inhuman.

—————————————————————————————————

‘Steve,’ came the usual plea, though Bucky sounded hollow, not teasing, this time. ‘Please. Lemme out.’

Steve leaned heavily against his chipped sink, trying to wash off the worst of the blood without jostling his ribs. He shouldn’t, he knew, and he’d be to blame for whatever Bucky did when loose. But he was tired, so bone-deep tired, that he sighed and finally gave up.

‘Fine,’ he muttered, catching some blood from his nose and pressing it on to the mirror. ‘Go stretch your damn legs. You do more damage in than out.’

He closed his eyes, clutching the sink to stop himself from teetering over. It was stupid, but he didn’t want to watch Bucky go, to have to bleed and ache all alone. 

Gentle hands disrupted his thoughts, one cradling the back of his head while the other dabbed a cloth at his nose. Steve let out a shaky breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

‘Punk,’ Bucky murmured. ‘Causin’ trouble. Startin’ fights.’

‘I had him on the ropes,’ Steve said, and clutched at Bucky’s rolled up shirt sleeve.


	3. Chapter 3

The Hydra bunker exploded and Steve felt time slow to a crawl. Chunks of stone and hot, warped metal flew outward in a halo, as though the laws of physics that held them together had suddenly failed and set them floating loose through the clearing. The noise followed a split second behind - a wall of sound that hit like a physical thing and hammered on Steve’s ear drums. The debris sped up, fell in real time, and the screams of those unlucky enough to be below mingled with the ringing in Steve’s ears.

Another successful mission, if you could call it that. The Hydra agents were all dead or captured, snarling and lashing out at their guards as they were loaded on to a truck. The base was destroyed and the weaponry secured, and there would no doubt be another medal to add to the shoe box under Steve’s bed.

It didn’t feel like a victory. How could it, with broken bodies littering the clearing and his costume heavy with blood?

Roll call began across the clearing, a chorus of weak and weary shouts from swaying, bloodied men. The patches of silence were the worst, when a name was called and no answer came. He should go to join the group of men; take his place in the chorus. He should do his duty.

If anyone saw Captain America spin and lurch in to the forest, they didn’t raise the alarm.

Steve walked until the sounds of the clean up faded: slamming car doors and the splutter of engines and the rumble of settling earth. The hoarse roll call. The cries of the wounded. All of them were muffled and swallowed up as Steve trudged further away, until finally all he could hear was his own ragged breathing and the chatter of winter birds. And just on the edge of hearing, his body knitting back together - like the prickle of growing hair. One arm wrapped around his torso, to hold everything in place and try to speed the process. The other dragged his shield beside him, bumping and scraping over small rocks and drawing a line in the snow.

He’d follow the line back, when he could face it. Or next to it, the steady drip of his blood, like a morbid trail of bread crumbs.

That was the problem with running in first, with a bright shield and gaudy costume. He was meant to distract them; draw their fire. It almost worked too well, sometimes.

Steve thought of the bodies slumped in the clearing and wished himself a dozen more bullets.

———————————————————————————————————

Having this new body was nice, and having a purpose was nicer. But Steve had sort of thought - _like a child_ , he kicked himself - that being in the army was like having a family. And maybe it was, for the other guys, who huddled together around campfires and in tents, making dirty jokes and trading cigarette stubs. But the thing that had gotten Steve in to the war - the serum, and that name: _Captain America_ \- well, that was what held him apart, made the men polite and careful. He slept in his own tent and when he walked by the campfires, the conversation dropped to a hush. 

Steve thought maybe he was lonelier in Europe than he’d ever been in Brooklyn. And he’d been pretty lonely, after Bucky stopped coming to visit. 

It was no different than before, really, except now he’d had a taste of another life, of gentle hands and a teasing grin. Of the sound of his name wrapped round someone else’s tongue, someone who didn’t bark it at him like his boss or his neighbours, but said it soft and sensual.

And then had stopped saying it at all. The other men got care packages and neat-written letters to read and reread ‘til they faded or fell to pieces. Steve hadn’t expected anything like that - there was no one back home to send them - but he had swiped a tiny mirror for his tent and kept it under his pillow. And he had stared at it, and stared at it, and whispered Bucky’s name, but no face had swirled in to being and Steve didn’t want to push his luck.

He was past luck now, walking wounded through the forest. His body could mend itself just fine, but another part of Steve was splintering. He had to see Bucky, see someone who had known him and cared, even just for a moment. He stopped and swayed for a moment before slumping against the base of a tree. 

The shield rested easily on his knees, plain metal side facing up. Steve swiped some blood from the wound on his chest, tracing patterns with it on to the shield. A star; a pair of eyes. He thought he maybe felt it get warm, but that could’ve been the heat from his legs. Healing always made him burn up, and he had an awful lot of bullets to see to. 

Long minutes stretched out, and Steve gazed in to the shield. His eyelids kept sliding shut but he shook himself awake, and every time - nothing.

His head hit the bark with a thump.

And he heard a soft sigh.

At first, Steve had thought that noise was the sound of escaping air; an ethereal sort of draught coming from the mirror world. But now he recognised the timbre of Bucky’s voice, the exquisite gasp of relief. Hearing him sigh like that made his throat burn.

‘You rang?’ Bucky asked casually, and Steve forced himself to look. Bucky’s features were arranged in to an expression of polite boredom, but they slid in to horror once he saw the state he was in. ‘St-Steve! What happened?’

He flapped around Steve’s slumped form, checking the worst of his wounds. Steve licked his lips and replied, his mouth dry from the walk.

‘Got shot a few times. Then a building exploded. Don’t worry, it’ll heal.’

He reached up to tug at the neck of his costume; Bucky growled and pushed his hand out the way. Steve’s skin was hot and clammy against Bucky’s palm as he checked his forehead for fever. Muttering to himself, Bucky scooped up a fistful of snow and pressed it against Steve’s neck. Then he did a double take.

Steve watched, suddenly nervous, as for the first time since he’d arrived, Bucky really looked at Steve’s new body. His eyes raked slowly from the soles of Steve’s feet to the crown of his head where his hair was mussed from his helmet. A slight frown creased Bucky’s forehead, and his free hand poked at Steve’s chest.

‘I know I ain’t dreamin’ cos I got a better memory than that, and you got all your clothes on. How’d you go and swell up so big?’

Steve shifted awkwardly, eyes glued to Bucky’s frown. ‘They injected me with a serum. To make me a super soldier.’

Bucky’s wrath was explosive. He flew in to a fury, spitting threats and half rising from his crouch to storm after the army.

‘No, Bucky,’ Steve grabbed his arm, ‘I-I volunteered. I let them do it.’ The now-smaller man stopped struggling in his grip. A heavy silence fell over the forest.

Bucky turned back, crestfallen. Glancing down at the wet slush in his hand, he pressed it back on Steve’s neck. 

‘Why’d you do that, Stevie?’ He asked. ‘Didn’ you like yourself before?’

A trickle of cold water ran down the back of Steve’s neck. He snorted and Bucky’s frown came back.

‘I’m more useful like this.’

‘All full up with bullets, you mean,’ Bucky snapped, and Steve winced because yeah, that’s what he meant. Bucky sighed and dropped his handful of slush, wiping his hand on Steve’s arm before scooping up some fresh snow. ‘Why is it every time I come visit, you get blood on my shirt?’

His voice was light but his shirt was indeed ruined and Steve wanted to sink in to the ground. Down through the layers of snow and pine needles to hibernate like a bear.

‘Sorry,’ He muttered, and was rewarded with a scathing look.

‘Don’t care about the shirt, idiot.’

Steve blushed under the fever. ‘Right. Well, I’ll be healed in a bit.’

‘Not the point either, dummy.’

Steve took a deep breath and asked his real question; the one that had pulled him out of the clearing and all the way to the base of this tree. ‘Where’ve you been, Bucky? How come you’re not in my mirror any more?’

Bucky stiffened and Steve regretted asking, wanted to stuff the words back in to his mouth and chew them to pieces.

‘Not that I expected you there, or anything,’ he babbled. ‘Just thought you might want letting out sometimes. I could do that. You know. If you behaved.’

Bucky wouldn’t meet his eyes. ‘If I behaved.’ His voice was hollow. ‘Like how I got you beat up last time. Remember?’

Steve nodded. ‘But you took care of me, after.’

Bucky snorts but shifts a bit closer, his hands tentative as they check Steve’s wounds.

‘Figured you wouldn’ want another visit.’

‘I did,’ Steve murmured. ‘I do.’

He watched as the unhappy twist of Bucky’s mouth smoothed itself to make way for a grin, like bright spring sunshine peeking through clouds after rain.

‘Why didn’ you say?’ Bucky crooned, pressing the line of his thigh more firmly against Steve’s so that their heat met and mingled. ‘I’ve been bored straight outta my mind.’

—————————————————————————————————————

Staggering back in to the clearing, Steve was met with equal parts fury and relief. His body was already half way to healed; the blood of his wounds had long stopped flowing and each grown a scab. He had to wipe the dizzy grin off his face, and keep it off for his dressing down in front of all the men. He stood to attention, giving a clipped ‘sorry, sir’ each time the commander took a breath, and stared over the shorter man’s shoulder at the truck door directly behind.

He kept his blank expression well as Bucky capered within the scratched metal. Steve only had to bite the inside of his cheek once: when Bucky stuck his tongue out and pretended to lick the commander’s ear.

—————————————————————————————————————

Captain America sat in disgrace, cheerfully oblivious to the angry silence on the drive back to the army base. He was listening to a voice only he could hear, and cradling his shield close to his chest like the men clutched their much folded letters.


	4. Chapter 4

The nearest bar to the army base was a shell of former glory. Pale rectangles on the walls marked where paintings used to hang, bartered away or politely seized to help fund the war effort. Black-out blinds hid cracked window panes, swelling with the winter breeze that whistled in to the warmth. And overhead: missing or long dead bulbs cast large swathes of shadow over the sparse tables and chairs.

It didn’t matter. A bar was a bar. And whisky was always whisky. Steve hunched over his glass, an island of sobriety amongst the cheerful din of the men. They were raucous, tipping back their heads to let out filthy bursts of laughter. Arms gestured wildly, cutting through the haze of smoke that softened the puddles of light. Steve knocked back the last few dregs and set his tumbler down with a click. He wished he was in Brooklyn. Or back in his tent. Even under the reproachful gaze of Bucky.

————————————————————————————————————————

The first flurries had fallen in the blue light of dawn, leaving the base looking sugared. The men hadn’t stopped to admire the view; they were dulled with the horror of an overnight mission. Heavy boots trampled the fresh snow in to the mud as they dragged their bodies back to their tents, and the men collapsed in to fitful sleep, only to awake hours later to a snowdrift. The tops of tents bowed under the weight; it spilled through their canvas doorways. Across the base came the crunch of shovels, steam rising off the men as they worked.

It was no good - operations had to be pushed back. The tanks and trucks were blocked in. The men heard the news with straight faces, saluting as they were dismissed. Steve couldn’t help a smile as they hollered in the open air, giddy with high spirits.

He couldn’t blame them, really. He just wished he could join in.

All day Steve ducked past snowball fights; picked his way round crowded campfires. The holiday feeling compounded his loneliness, and he itched to get back to the mirror. But as he finally kicked off his boots in his tent that night, a throat cleared that wasn’t Bucky’s.

‘Uh, Cap?’

Steve whirled around. A Sergeant stood in his doorway. 

‘What’s wrong?’ Steve asked, his mind leaping to Hydra agents or snowball fights gone horribly awry. Behind him he heard a loud yawn and knew Bucky had come to the mirror.

‘Nothin’ sir, we were just thinkin’ - given the snow and that we're off duty, as it were - maybe you’d like to come for a drink?’

The Sergeant shifted awkwardly, clearly having drawn the short straw. Steve tried to keep the surprise and dawning hope off his face.

‘Wha - yes! Sure, of course.’ He fumbled to get his boots back on, ignoring the squawk of dismay from the mirror.

‘Steve! Hey! What about me?’ Bucky called as Steve hurried past. He grabbed for his coat and the sleeve caught the mirror, knocking it face down to the floor. Steve hovered, torn between getting left behind and leaving Bucky in the mud. A pointed cough from the Sergeant had him reeling out the tent doorway, a hot, tight wad of guilt settling low in his stomach.

—————————————————————————————————————————

It had been nice, for a while. A bit like Steve had imagined back in Brooklyn. The men had laughed and joked with him, clapping him on the shoulder when he used his scant army pay to buy them all a round. But as the night wore on they drifted apart, gravitating to groups and tables or grabbing dames to dance to the strains of music. Steve was left stranded, hovering and humiliated, before he shoved himself down at the bar. 

He couldn’t get that mirror out of his head, nor Bucky’s outraged shout as it fell. The sea of empty glasses that surrounded him hadn’t dulled the memory; Steve sniffed and ordered another.

‘You lean any closer to that drink, you’re gonna fall in.’ Bucky glared at him from the copper pumps. His lips were pressed in a tight line and his eyes were hard as they watched Steve. ‘Havin’ fun with your new friends?’

Perhaps Steve was drunker than he’d thought, because he couldn’t hide the flush of misery. Disappointment and shame prickled over his skin, and Steve picked at a scratch on the bar.

‘Sure,’ he tried, aiming at light and airy. A glance up at Bucky showed he’d missed. Bucky eyed the crowd of soldiers - saw the way they’d closed ranks and joined shoulders and left Steve out in the cold.

‘Well ain’t that a thing,’ Bucky muttered, his voice dripping enough acid to cloud the copper on the pumps. ‘Steve, lemme out.’

Steve let out a bitter bark of laughter, forgetting he was supposed to be alone. The bar owner frowned at him and dragged his eyes over the cluster of empty glasses.

‘No,’ Steve murmured through barely parted lips, giving the owner a smile and a nod. ‘I don’t need you to hold my hand, Bucky. I’m a grown man; I can take care of myself.’

‘Ain’t your hand I’m aiming for, pal. Besides, I just fancy a drink.’

It was asking for trouble but Steve still felt guilty and he really did want some company. He waited until the owner was busy serving someone else, and glanced around to check no one was watching. The huddled groups were wrapped up in each other, held by jokes or stories or whispered news from home. Steve turned back to the bar with renewed determination and thrust his right hand in his pocket. A prick from his pen knife brought a bead of blood welling to the tip of his thumb.

‘Behave,’ Steve hissed, as always, and pressed his thumb to the pump. The usual sigh of Bucky’s release was swallowed by the din of the bar.

‘Buy a fella a drink?’ Bucky’s lips smiled against his ear.

Steve waved at the owner and paid for Bucky’s drink, and definitely didn’t think about what the men would think or what havoc Bucky might wreak or that his hand was on Steve’s thigh.

So it was his own fault, really, that things went the way they did. Bucky drank too much and flirted too much and when a man called Hodge made a comment - some snide remark about the Captain, some poisonous but pointless barb - Bucky flew at him with all the fury he stored up over time in the mirror. He snarled and scrapped like an alley cat, lighting fast and lethal with a savage thirst for blood. There was no holding back, none of the customary restraint of two strangers testing their limits: Bucky had his full form, and he fought like he wanted to feel it.

Judging by his busted lip and the way he reeled from the big punches, Steve thought he probably would. But Bucky had the upper hand, and it was only when the other men piled on against the interloper that Steve intervened. He grabbed for the smaller man’s shirt sleeve as he was thrown against a nearby table, the shower of drink and and breaking glass setting a dame screaming. The men surged forward as he frog-marched Bucky to the door, tempted to finish what had been started. But one look at the Captain’s thunderous expression had them cringing and shuffling back.

Steve wasn’t sure if he imagined the wild shadow flitting behind their eyes.

——————————————————————————————————————————

The walk back to Steve’s tent passed in frosty silence. He relaxed his grip on Bucky’s shoulder when he heard a hiss of pain, but kept his jaw locked and his breaths carefully measured. The moon hung heavy overhead, bright and crisp in the clear night sky, and Bucky stumbled trying to watch it. It shone silver in his eyes; two steel rings for irises. He blinked when he tripped over a rock and his eyes warmed back to brown.

‘Mind your feet,’ Steve said, his tone clipped, and shifted his hand on Bucky’s shoulder to guide him through the camp. Their boots crunched over the tightly packed snow, Steve leading the way by memory through the labyrinth and warning of hidden tent pegs.

Bucky didn’t say a word on the walk, and when he ducked through Steve’s canvas doorway in to the dark of the tent it was with stiff shoulders and a pained grimace.

‘What the hell was that?’ Steve demanded, barely waiting for the tent flap to fall closed. The darkness was sudden and absolute, velvet against his skin. He crossed to the small table with its lamp and felt around for the box of matches.

No reply came from the darkness; no exhalation or scuff of a boot. Steve swore and fumbled with the matches, half afraid he was already alone. But the scratch and flare of a match showed Bucky still there, sagging where he stood. The lamp caught and grew warmer, pooling the tent in a honeyed glow and catching on the contours of Bucky’s bruised face.

‘He asked for it,’ Bucky rasped, lifting one shoulder and letting it fall. ‘Steve -’ He stepped forward hopefully, reaching with his unbloodied hand.

‘You - you can’t just - _Bucky_ ,’ Steve ground out, beginning to pace the short length of his tent. Bucky let his hand drop to his side where it plucked at his torn clothes. ‘They saw me with you, and they saw us leave, so tell me what the hell I’m supposed to -’

‘Relax, Steve, they won’ remember.’ 

Steve wasn’t sure if he meant the drink or the desperate haze in their eyes - either way, it was just too much.

‘ _Relax_?’ Steve exploded, tearing at his hair. Bucky blinked in wide eyed alarm, taking a reflexive step back so that his thighs hit the edge of the bed. ‘How am I supposed to relax, Buck? Those men are under my charge, and I let you loose right at them! And what about the bar - all that damage? What about the _cost_? This is my life, not some fair ground for you to let off steam!’

He broke off and slumped against the table, newly muscled shoulders drooping. He couldn’t feel anything but an aching, raw kind of tired. He blinked up at his sagging ceiling, pregnant with snowfall. So much for his shot at the army life, at camaraderie and brothers-in-arms. Even if the men’s brains forgot, their guts would surely remember. They’d give him an even wider berth than before, and Steve would be stuck alone in his tent every night, talking to the damn mirror.

A noise from Bucky interrupted his thoughts, and Steve glanced over to see him look stricken. It took him a moment to figure out why - that whisky must have muddled his senses - but it was clear soon enough. He said that last part out loud. The last embers of his rage fizzled out as he watched Bucky’s face crumple. 

‘No, I didn’t - Bucky, I’m sorry,’ Steve babbled, but Bucky was already crossing to the mirror where it had fallen next to the table. ‘Please,’ Steve croaked, blocking his way. ‘Stay. You’re all I have.’

‘An’ still not enough!’ Bucky sang, his voice bright and savage. ‘Poor lil’ Stevie, can’t make friends so he’s stuck passin’ time with a monster.’ 

‘You know I don’t think that.’

‘Do I?’ Bucky snapped, shouldering Steve out of the way. He bent to pick the mirror up and Steve caught his arm, keeping his grip gentle this time. Before the war, Steve never had to remind himself not to hurt another person, yet here he was dealing out these small hurts like they were pieces of gum. 

‘Bucky,’ Steve tried again, piling all his loneliness and longing in to the name. Bucky straightened but stayed facing away, a muscle in his jaw working. Steve held his breath and swallowed, feeling his pulse try to jump free from his throat.

For a moment Bucky seemed torn, suspended between the mirror and Steve. But the sigh Steve knew by heart gusted between his lips, and without turning, Bucky leaned against him. Steve tilted his head closer, resting his cheek on Bucky’s hair.

‘Sorry,’ he murmured.

‘Yeah. Me too.’

‘Please, will you stay?’ Steve heart hammered against his ribs and he swallowed around a lump in his throat. Bucky’s hair was tickling his nose, but only because he kept trying to breathe it in. He lifted his head as Bucky turned slowly, his body burning a trail against Steve until they were chest to chest. Steve shuffled forward to slot their legs together, then they were glued all the way up, with arms snaking around each other and Bucky’s hands shamelessly roaming. Steve's heart galloped at a hundred miles an hour - enough to rise up from the ground. This was more than he'd dared to hope, and better than he'd dreamed.

‘I could, I guess,’ Bucky purred, tracing the line of Steve’s waist. ‘For a lil’ while.’ He licked his lips and leaned closer, his voice dropping low and rumbling against Steve’s chest. ‘Will you make it worth my time, Stevie?’

‘I’ll try,’ Steve managed, his voice hoarse and his hands doing some wandering of their own. ‘On - on one condition.’

Bucky arched an eyebrow; tilted his head back in challenge so that lamplight licked at his jawline. Steve steeled himself and took a breath.

‘Kiss me first,’ he blurted. Embarrassment prickled hotly over his skin but Bucky’s gentle hands smoothed it away.

‘What kind of monster d’you take me for?’ Bucky asked, his eyes wide with mock horror. Then he winked, and slid his arms around Steve’s neck, and pushed up on to his toes to oblige.


	5. Chapter 5

Not all that much changed after the destruction of the bar, at least not to the casual observer. The men awoke with foggy memories and putrid hangovers, and the bar owner found an envelope stuffed with crinkled bank notes dropped through a smashed window. The Captain, meanwhile, went about his duties as normal. He was their fearless leader, with an unbroken record of successful missions and a shoe box brimming with medals. They served under him with unabashed pride, and if there was a new reserve in his manner - only clipped, contained smiles for the men; no more doe eyed stares at the campfires or half hopeful jokes - no one thought to comment. 

After each raid, the company wound its way back to base, the men leaning heavily on one another and tracing a drunken path to their tents. 

Steve let them go without a backward glance. He hurried away to his own tent, a flush already creeping up his neck and a needy ache in his chest.

—————————————————————————————————————————

Seeing Bucky’s face was all it took to soothe it: the tender, chafing feel of each breath. It was like being back in Brooklyn; being small and bird boned and asthmatic, gulping for air in the stairwell. But that idiot grinned out of the mirror and warm honey pooled under Steve’s skin, calming the ghost of his remembered aches. 

Often times, Steve had plenty of fresh cuts to pick from. But sometimes his power house of a body beat him to it, sealing his wounds under rough scabs and yellowing his bruises. For those times, Steve had his penknife at the ready, and a thumb print that was purpled from abuse. It throbbed hot in his fist, but Steve sliced it with the detached concentration of a surgeon.

He’d do much worse than cut his thumb to see Bucky again.

The sigh that heralded Bucky’s release had come to be Steve’s favourite sound. It played over and over in his mind like a stuck record, a soothing back drop to the crashes and screams of his missions. He closed his eyes as he let Bucky out, focusing all his attention on remembering that sigh just right.

The first thing Bucky always did was to take Steve’s penknife away. He set it down on the table with a clatter before catching Steve’s hand in his own. Then Bucky parted those sinful lips and gently sucked on Steve’s thumb, swiping away the blood with his tongue and crinkling his eyes up at Steve.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the happiest Steve had ever been in his life, and when Bucky gave him his hungriest look, Steve thought death by Bucky would be the best sort of agony. He half wanted it, in his maddest moments; to be wholly consumed by Bucky, to find oblivion in his body and soul.

‘Not such a snack these days, huh?’ He joked, sending those maudlin thoughts skittering. Bucky smirked from where he was nibbling on Steve’s chest, mischief sparking in his eyes. Steve had just meant he was bigger - all over, nothing sleazy - nothing, nothing like _that_ \- but Bucky’s smile was feral as he slid further down Steve’s body.

‘Don’t worry, Stevie, I got an appetite.’ Bucky sucked a bruise on to his hip bone.

‘Glutton,’ Steve gasped, his hands balling in his scratchy army blanket.

Bucky winked, shameless. ‘Tease.’

They slept together after, Steve curled tight to Bucky’s back with an arm flung over his slender waist. Steve sealed himself airtight, melding to every contour and breathing through a mouthful of hair as though they really might blur together in the night and slide in to each other’s skin. It would be a sort of homecoming, Steve thought, and he clutched Bucky tighter.

Still, no matter how tangled they slept, it was never enough to anchor Bucky. After a few hours, the heat would drain from his skin and his edges would start to fade until Steve could see straight through to the rumpled sheets below.

‘Sorry, pal,’ Bucky murmured on the times when he woke up. He turned in Steve’s arms and gave a sad smile. ‘Looks like I’ve run outta luck.’

Steve always tried to steal a last kiss, to prolong their parting, but it was never the same. He couldn’t feel Bucky’s breath on his face, couldn’t feel the heat, the hunger of him. And when Steve opened his eyes, Bucky was gone, leaving only a dent in Steve’s pillow. Steve buried his face in it and breathed deep, and felt the familiar ache build and settle in his chest.

——————————————————————————————————————

It was the happiest Steve had ever been, but it _hurt_ , loving Bucky like this. He burned up whenever Bucky wasn’t there, drying and crumbling from the inside out, turning to ash and living for the moments when Bucky came to fan the flames. And with every night together, the pain compounded, until Steve was a towering inferno smiling through cracked, smoke-stained skin.

When the plane went down, Steve felt a brief, mad moment of hilarity. How mundane, how ridiculous, to take the mirror man as his lover and then _drown_. Or freeze, or get crushed by buckling metal. It didn't matter. It was all so underwhelming - like performing death defying stunts in a circus only to trip in front of traffic. 

Better not to think about it. Better to spend his last moments - and didn’t they stretch out long? So long that a few short seconds felt like a lazy Brooklyn summer - thinking of Bucky. His lips. The catlike way he walked, the arch of his feet running up Steve's calves. That sigh.

Oh, that sigh. Steve closed his eyes and played it in his head as the ice rose up to meet him.

——————————————————————————————————————

‘Steve?’

The interior of the plane was dim, washed in weak moonlight, and quiet but for the groan of metal and rush of icy water. Bucky squinted out of the control panel, trying to make out Steve in the gloom but blocked by some sort of shadow -

The plane teetered, heaving to the left, and the shadow shifted in to a patch of moonlight. Steve was slumped forward, his forehead resting in the shallow dip where he’d dented the panel on impact. His body slid to the left as the plane tilted, rolling his head to face Bucky. A trickle of blood, almost black in the gloom, slid from his temple down to his cheek.

‘Steve?’ Bucky whispered again, the raw, disbelieving horror catching in his throat and stealing away his breath. ‘No. No, no. _Steve_.’

Bucky began to scream. He threw himself at the inside of the glass, splintered with spiderweb cracks from the crunch of Steve’s forehead. He screamed and sobbed and beat his hands bloody, watching Steve’s life ebb away and helpless to reach him.

The plane groaned and tilted again, and Steve’s head lolled like a broken toy. Bucky moaned - a broken, animal sound - then froze, unable even to breathe. The blood on Steve’s cheek had begun to move. It wound it’s way across the broad planes of Steve’s face, so handsome even before the serum, moving in stops and starts and oh, so agonisingly slowly. Bucky swallowed, tasting bile and the copper tang of blood from his torn throat.

‘Come on,’ he breathed, his heartbeat slamming in his ears. ‘Lemme out, you bastard.’

The trickle reached the ridge of Steve’s jaw and hung there, suspended.

‘Don’ leave me here like this, Stevie.’ Bucky wiped his nose on the back of his arm before returning his forehead to the cool torment of the glass. ‘Don’ leave me here alone.’

The words came out raw, scraped from the hollow in his chest. Steve said nothing, his lips tinged blue from the cold and the moonlight and his face smoothed, peaceful.

The blood fell.

——————————————————————————————————————

‘You’re going to want to see this, sir.’

The SHIELD agent cradled the phone beneath her furred hood, shouting over the drone of the drill. She glanced back in to the cockpit, at the smudge of blue and red under the ice. 

‘They’ve… they’ve found him.’

The Captain lay embedded in the ice, six feet from the pilot’s seat. He was curled up on his side, one arm wrapping around his middle while the other pillowed his head. His knees were bent, slightly drawn up, and he looked for all the world like he was… sleeping.

‘Funny way to fall,’ murmured a scientist. His companion grunted in agreement.

Over on the control panel, a pair of eyes watched them, flashing silver in the beams of torches.

——————————————————————————————————————

This was it. A new life, a new apartment - a new century, even. Steve dropped his keys and his one small bag, taking his first few steps in to the future. The traffic blared its horns outside, mingling with the shouts and barks of laughter of pedestrians. Steve wasn’t sure if he was blessed or punished.

 _One way to find out_ , he thought, crossing to his tiny bathroom. New bottles of shampoo stood in the shower, while an unwrapped bar of soap rested on the corner of the sink. And there, below the mirrored cabinet - a disposable razor. Hardly daring to hope, Steve picked up the razor and ran the blade over his thumb. His heart galloped in his chest and his hand shook as he lifted it to the glass, meeting his own haunted eyes.

Bucky sighed.


End file.
